


化け猫

by tokyonightskies



Category: Naruto
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Demons, M/M, Minor Violence, Neko Uchiha Itachi, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Sasuke grows; from an energetic child who sneaks tomatoes from the fridge to a teenager who tries to hide the crack in his voice. His features sharpen, done away with baby fat, his shoulders broaden and he gains some muscle due to his father’s insistence to join the track and field team of his school.—“It’s only proper, your grandfather and I have both been members” And that certainly nipped any and all attempts at a discussion in the bud. Itachi doesn’t know how to feel about the changes, being torn between watching early in the mornings how Sasuke changes into the school uniform and shying away from the sight altogether. Oh, but he’s deadly attractive even from up close as he cradles him in his arms against his chest to talk about his day, even if the complaints are about giggling girls and the heat in their stares as they fall upon him walking by.</p>
<p>And yet… Itachi knows how deceptive the slow trickle of time seems to be and with this knowledge comes a bitterness—like listening to Gnossiene °1 after heartbreak or biting in raw chicory,—but also a gripping fear that tinges the tranquility of everyday life a stale blue.</p>
<p>Nothing really lasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	化け猫

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! Have some bakeneko!Itachi to end October with! I drew from multiple folkloristic elements, including the Chinese Senri to allow for some soul-sucking. Might contain a reference or two to Black Butler. I deliberately left the ending inconclusive for future exploration. 
> 
> Anyway:

i. 昔々、

He gingerly dips his brush into the black ink, smoothens the _kozogami_ with delicate fingertips and curves a bit more over the low table. The lighting in the room is dim, nothing more than a seductive flicker of a flame and as a result the few stray strands slipping from his tight back-drawn bun form the sepia-hued protagonists in the phantasmagoria on the backdrop. His knees scrape over the _tatami_ as he shifts and prepares to copy the first few verses of the _waka_ by Narihira no Ason.

It’s sad how he didn’t even get past the first character, he muses to himself, as loud footsteps echo on the cypress-wooden floor outside in the corridor; then comes the rattling of the bamboo lattice as the sliding door is shoved open. He stares at the black blotch of ink on the fine sheet of paper for a short moment, before casting a glance over his shoulder. When he sees the distraught expression on his younger brother’s face and the violent shudder along that straight line of his shoulders and how the sleeve of his chaplain’s cloak slips just a bit further down his upper arm, he _knows_.

“Brother..” Izuna rasps, frantically trying to catch his breath. He’s holding a sword in his right hand.

He raises himself up, using the desk to push him up, and crosses the expanse of the room in a blink of the eye; already putting an arm on his brother’s shoulder, _already_ assessing him for any wounds. His eyebrows furrow as he sweeps his gaze over his brother’s body. His fingers involuntarily clench, grabbing onto the rich damask of his cloak.

“They accused our brother of high treason.” Izuna places a hand atop of his as he says this, looking at him with earnest eyes. In the darkness of the room, they seem to glimmer in anger. His younger brother glares at the tatami matting, then closes his eyes and hisses, “He managed to escape, but..” All the black-eyed fire in that glare now burns a hole through his face as his little brother looks up at him and warns, “Members of the Senju clan will be here _soon_.”

He nods—thinking that: _yes_ this was bound to happen soon, that _yes_ Madara couldn’t continue to expand the Uchiha clan’s power at the Senju’s expense, _of course he couldn’t_ ; that they would move against him and appeal to the highest power there is in the realm to validate their vengeance. All his warnings were swallowed down in brotherly obedience. His hand falls off his younger brother’s shoulder and to his side.

“Izuna..” He begins, the inside of his mouth dry; the inside of his mind swamped. The Senju and imperial guard will surely try to come in from the northern gate of the compound given if they haven’t already. If they hurry now, they can ready a palanquin for escape. He tries to offer his younger brother a reassuring smile, but if anything it comes across as tentative. “We must leave _now._ ”

“Where are we…”

He cuts him off, “Ise province.” –It’s only logical to regroup at their residence in their home province and he’s positive their eldest brother hurries along, already well on his way. Their two youngest brothers as well as their father still live there and the power of the Uchiha has always been strongest close to the Amaterasu shrine.

Taking the sword from his little brother, he then pushes him onwards to the open doorway and stalks behind him, hot on his heels. There is shouting to be heard from the outside, growing louder and louder as they bolt through the narrow corridor leading to the pavilion south. He almost stops dead in his tracks when he smells the fledgling fire that has been set. His palm presses down between Izuna’s shoulder blades as he tries to propel him to move faster. Their court clothing is unsuitable for running and it takes effort to refrain from slipping over the long pant legs of their trousers.

Thick blackish gray smoke starts to cloud the hallway; he can hear the soft screaking of the flames on the wooden structure of the building and the sound’s so dangerously akin to the comforting one of blazing coals in a brazier, the stench of burning wood floods his sense of smell and he knows that members of the Senju clan will throw down more torches to the porch and the _moya_ and perhaps some of the southern pavilions too. How long before all that’s left is a large pile of cinders, ash and charred corpses?—It’s not a thought he should entertain right now. His chaplain cap falls from his head and skids down and over the cypress wooden floor, abandoned and absolved by the smoke. 

Tears brim along the line of his lower eyelid as the heat starts to sting; the building creaks and groans under the weight of the fire. They’re almost there when there’s a loud _crack_ and he moves completely on instinct when he pushes Izuna forwards with a strong hand on the back. One of the beams holding up the ceiling snaps in half and comes crumbling down, forming a boundary between the tail-end of the corridor and the rest. His hair is now completely undone, swaying around his sweaty face. Orange light reflects on his bright eyes as he watches his younger brother scramble up straight again. It’s so unbearably hot.

“Brother!” His younger brother calls out desperately, wanting to reach for him but afraid of the blaze. He presses his sleeve against his nose as a few coughs fall from his torn-open mouth.

He shakes his head wildly and yells, “Don’t worry about me! Get to safety!”

Through the fire, he can see how Izuna tries to come to terms with what he had just said; the sharpness of his expressive face gets hazier through the hot orange blaze, but the general outline of his sloping posture betrays enough of what he thinks about this. The sword clatters to the floor in shock when one of the breech blocks in the wall next to him starts to groan loudly. It’s a matter of quickly-drawn breaths until everything’s burned down and him alongside with it.

“We will avenge you!” Izuna clamors, equal parts solemn and equal parts enraged. That the Senju would drag one of their own down to the ground had always been something inconceivable to him, but with the impending reality framed in flame, he clenches his hands in angry fists. He turns tail and runs, dragging his dirtied trousers up. His hair a black wisp behind him as the room burns on and down.

His eyes fall onto the sword. He settles down on his knees. Sweat tickles the back of his neck. There is no room for hesitation or senseless self-preservation. His shaking hands find the handle of the blade and an almost desolate sigh escapes from his dry lips. As the smoke shrouds him from inside out and outside in, he pushes the sharp point of the sword inwards his gut and then so deep the blood doesn’t only rushes out from the wound, but upwards from his throat as well, or at least it feels so.

He is supposed to be dead, _and yet._

His point of view is skewed as if the world and everything on it grew in size and he himself has shrunk; there is something wrong with his perception of colors too, too much gray, too much blue.  It’s warm where he is, not in the terrifying scorch of the fire, but somewhere comfortable, pleasant. Somewhere akin to a mother’s embrace. A raspy tongue swipes at his forehead and he blinks slowly at the sensation. What he sees are a pair of bright feline eyes, whiskers attached to a dainty muzzle, a light-colored wet nose, and two fuzzy ears. It only takes him a moment to realize what exactly he’s looking at, what exactly is wrong with him.

_What has he done in his past life to be reborn a cat?_ —He’s faintly aware of the hunger spreading through his new hapless body, as he eyes the litter surrounding him and how they brush up against their mother’s belly to feed. On unsteady paws, he tries to stumble out of the patch of tall grass, but the mother rises from her spot and drags him back to the others by the back of his neck. Her teeth are not ungentle, but the grip she has on him is firmer than expected. His tail wags in dissatisfaction. She drops him and resettles herself to lie on her side, giving the kittens a chance to feed, and with one paw she captures him and shoves him towards her furry belly and exposed teats.

_Drink_ , and so he does.

Time passes, but the memories of his past life are still so clear in his mind that he sometimes finds himself choking on thick smoke that’s no longer in his lungs; _that has never been in his lungs_. Still, he learns how to grow into this body: teetering through piss-stained alleyways on dainty paws, sinking his claws into the feathery neck of a bird, using the darkness of night and the camouflage of a bush for the hunt, biting the stubby fingers of a farmer who wants to drag him away by his tail.

He takes on the role of an observer; with a curled tail he watches how the farmers grind their sickle blades and cut their crops during harvest, with widened pupils he observes how the butcher drives a sharp stake through the back of the head of a cow until the animal starts to bellow in pain. Its hoofs scrape over the stone floor as it bleeds out. Soon enough the entire square is doused in the coppery smell of blood and to his refined senses this becomes preferable to a city crooning under summer’s heat around them, where there is a constant reminder of sweat and rot and sex in the air. His sandpaper tongue touches upon the outline of his muzzle and pink wet nose in reflex.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out that there is a longing sensation in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t take him long to figure out that this isn’t a remnant of his human life, but a sign that he is waiting for something. _But what is he waiting for?_ After a decade, his fur hasn’t lost its healthy gloss, _no_ instead his tail has started to split slowly into two separate ends. In his reflection in a puddle, he sees how the pin-straight pupils in his catlike eyes gobble up the gold of the irises and bleed from black into red. Somehow his body seems to be changing anew into something more powerful than the slender muscles in his frame could ever suggest.

He decides that the most sensible thing to do right now would be to wander. His paw print sinks shallowly into the mud down the puddle as he darts across towards the bushes; the quick sweep of his tails are nothing but an afterthought for the farmer who dully watches him leave. It hasn’t even occurred to him that the cat had two tails.

At first it seems to him that there are no limitations to what he can now do: he eats tree bark and white snake guts and mouse-white skulls that crunch between his teeth. The hunt too becomes more exciting when he learns how to manipulate the murders of crows dropping from the treetops and lets them drive the prey right into his greedy mouth, when he learns how to move from one place to another without having to walk or having to run. In between low-hanging foliage, winter’s mist, brownish scrubs and wildflowers he experiments with shape-shifting; becomes as big as a tiger, turns as small as a snail, grows his two tails back into one. After some time he goes even beyond these little changes as he becomes another animal altogether, but for some reason he does not dare to turn back into man. It is not his time yet.

The longing sensation doesn’t subside, but remains subdued, snaring his insides together with tight— _growing tighter_ strings, it feels suspiciously alike to being suffocated. He cleans the pink plush of his paw pads with an eager tongue as he muses about this; _oh_ well _, it isn’t like he isn’t familiar with the feeling._ A woman’s palm roofs the top of his head and flattens his fuzzy ears, her cooing resounds throughout the courtyard but there’s something indescribably nervous about the grating high pitch of her voice. He lies down on his side and whips his tail around calmly, hearing the galloping horse hoofs rushing towards the estate. By the end of this evening, this entire estate will have been razed to the ground and the woman who he made feed him for these past few months will be the only survivor. It is the least he could do before he leaves again.

_When he takes on the form of his past life—a spitting image of how he looked when he died, he was seeking refuge in a hermit’s cabin in the mountains. There were copies of the Shin Kokinshū scattered over the floor with certain words crossed out and replaced to make the content crude and obscene. Every evening there was a recital of the Lotus sutra and the sonorous intonation of the scholar’s voice often lulled him to a deep sleep. He would’ve been content to remain here until the longing sensation pressed him to wander again, but one day the hermit was inconsolable about news he received from the capital. He had turned to drinking and nothing but a broken heart can make people as mean as too many servings of sake. It must’ve been a defensive reflex of the incomprehensible magic in his body that made him return to what he looked like before he died, ages ago in his clan compound near the capital._

_It was also the first time he killed a human being. His fingertips were pressing into the frail flesh of the hermit’s wrists as he held onto him and thrust his sharp teeth into the man’s throat like he had done countless of times before with a summer’s cuckoo or a small sparrow. He **chews** on a tidbit of artery, slick-stuck between his teeth. There was more than blood coating his tongue and the air in the cabin smelled suspiciously of white chrysanthemum. When he pulled back he noticed how the hermit was trembling and how from the open wound, something pale and blue was trying to escape. It was the man’s soul. Despite himself, he licked the corners of his mouth clean of the dripping astral substance. He put the hermit down on the floor, atop the bundle of scrolls, and murmurs an apology. Distressed he takes a few steps on unsteady feet towards the porch. Gray clouds crowd around the mountain tops._

_And inside him is that familiar surge of **run run run.**_

He leaves the archipelago on a _wokou_ ship; wanders the vast land of the foreign kingdom on paws and hooves and wings and the soles of human feet, lurks in shadowy corners of the concubine quarters, hides under gigantic leaves against the tropical torrents as he observes the rain drops pelt down on the wet earth, eats slimy silk worms from their cocoons, copper coins, crystals from a noblewoman’s necklace because he’s gotten too curious over the taste and drinks lukewarm milk with lumps of rosemary bread, fish oil from the lamp, the freshly-spilt blood of a man he’s killed, runs along vast plains in between the hordes of wild Mongolian horses and so much more. Time gallops along him and the longing lingers. He reads in dozens of languages, writes in just as many, he learns about chemistry and philosophy and morality, and he watches how the industrial plants rise from brick and mortar in London soil. His appearance changes to fit his needs, but he usually prefers but three forms: a cat, a crow and his own self.

Eventually feeling world-weary, he returns home.

_After all, the power of the Uchiha clan has always been strongest near the Amaterasu shrine._

There’s city where his clan compound used to be; acres of land tilled and flattened and smothered under layers of asphalt, iron and concrete, convenience stores riddle the corners alongside pedestrian crossings and traffic lights, and the smooth skyline is jagged with dozens of skyscrapers. Everywhere is the smell of exhaust and street food, except for the pharmacies that smell like eucalyptus and aloe or the cosmetic chains where there are so many exoticisms crammed together in one space it’s swarming out of the doorway. His pink nose wrinkles wryly as he saunters past with a pin-straight tail.

People crowd past him save for a couple of high-schoolers in their navy-inspired uniforms, who crouch down and coo at him in wails and high-pitched cries. _Come kitty kitty kitty._ Some of them throw cookie crumbs at him as if that would be appeasing. There are tram tracks wedging parallel lines in the street surface, leading all the way to the suburbs. When one of the carriages passes by at a moderate speed, he notices how stuffed they are with people. Something inside of him, this _longing_ he never could get rid of, urges him to follow the electric cables far-stretched along two stops.

Eventually he finds himself sneaking into a suburban neighborhood with chalk-white houses that all have satellites attached to the same side of the house. There’s an old-fashioned _izakaya_ positioned between two _avant-garde_ buildings with more glass than wall. It strikes him as surprisingly homey from the buckwheat noodle smell to the charming calligraphy on the sign. He continues following the pull of his soul to a house with a modest garden surrounded by a yew-green hedge. There’s soft piano music coming from the slid-open doors of the living room; something that sounds suspiciously close to Brigitte Engerer playing Chopin.

“ _Zou.”_

He finds himself looking at a young boy, sitting cross-legged on the porch with a picture book on his lap. His claws rake thin stripes into the earth and his tail curls as if it’s trying to tie a knot in itself. _This is it.—_ He thinks to himself. The boy has a striking likeness to Izuna when he was a child, but there’s something of Madara in him too, the straight spine perhaps, or maybe the way he pronounces the word without hesitation. As if it doesn’t need testing, but simply needs to be spoken. If he puts more thought into this, he could point out where exactly the boy resembles his youngest brothers too; the pudgy cheeks, the mop of unruly black hair, the slope of his nose, the shells of his ears… This is _home_. He crawls from underneath the hedge onto the small patch of lawn, bracketed by pale pebbles.

“ _Itachi._ ” The boy prods the picture of the weasel with his index and looks up from his book.

He meows, at a loss for anything else. The boy stares up from his book and once his eyes have fallen upon him, he chuckles then and repeats the word to him, “Itachi.” He drags out the syllables, toys with the _chi,_ tongue-to-teeth.

Another mewl, emphasized by the sight of the mauve inside of his mouth and his sharp white teeth.

The boy’s mother comes out of the living room, carrying a red laundry basket in her arms. She raises an eyebrow and kindly admonishes, “Sasuke, no, no that’s a _neko_. You should know that word by now.”

A shake of the head, followed by an explanation; “Mom. Itachi’s his name… Look.”

Sasuke’s smiling widely at him before whispering in a tone that used to implicate a conspiracy from where— _when_ he’s from, “ _Itachi._ ”

He deliberately walks up the two steps of the porch and rubs his curved back against the boy’s kneecap, starts to purr and beg for affection. Something of a novelty since he usually dislikes being touched without there being an ulterior motive, such as food or shelter. Small stubby fingers stroke him behind the ears and along his throat and chest.

“Can we keep him? Can we, please?” Sasuke pleads, craning his neck to look at his mother. “He listens to my name for him so that means he’ll stay, right?”

She sighs and props the laundry basket against her right flank, holding onto one of the handles. “How about we first check if he doesn’t already have an owner?” Her tone of voice suggests a motherly patience, but also something that doesn’t leave any room for negotiation.

“He doesn’t have a collar!” Sasuke pipes up as he assesses Itachi’s throat once more, just to be sure.

The boy’s mother smiles patiently and decides to play her trump card, “You know you should ask your father about pets. Remember when you said you were going to collect _just_ paw prints and you came home with the cat attached to the paper?”

His posture deflates at the memory and it intrigues Itachi; with slumped shoulders he brushes the palm of his hand over the perfect curve of Itachi’s back all the way to the connecting point with his tail. The spine of the picture book thuds onto the wooden planking of the porch when he shifts to accommodate the cat on his lap. From this close the boy really looks a spitting image of Izuna, with the same facial structure and the same amount of baby fat stuck to his cheeks, but for some reason he feels a conviction that he will love this boy in his own right. _Sasuke Uchiha—_ Sunlight stirs his features; all paper-white skin and raven-black hair and gentle shadows playing grayscale along the expanse of his face, and he blinks long-lasting in the hope his eyes won’t turn to red on their own accord. 

“ _Itachi_ , you don’t already have someone taking care of you, right?” Sasuke asks him softly, his hot breath puffed against the tip of his furry ear. His voice blends into the soft piano play on the stereo installation in the living room and the heavy footfalls of the boy’s mother walking back into the house.

For what it’s worth, he shakes his head and presses his wet pink nose against the boy’s chin. As a reward a crooked index finger scratches him behind his ear.

“Good. Now we just need to convince dad. He’s a tough one.” The last part of his sentence comes in a whisper, as if they’re engaging in a conversation of the utmost importance.

He closes his eyes contently and kneads his claws into the fabric of the boy’s pants, but careful not to hurt him. His heart is on the verge of bursting and emptying itself of a chest-full of reddish strings on the boy’s lap and the porch floor.

vi.

“Can I keep him? Please?” Sasuke wheedles, holding Itachi unceremoniously against his chest in a way that makes his hind legs and tail sprawl out from under his body. He meows pathetically. _Please._

Fugaku Uchiha has mastered a look that balances disdain and incredulity in an equal ratio: the kind of stare that captures the expression of _did I hear that right?_ as perfectly as _I better **not** have heard that right_. He sighs deeply and puts his briefcase onto the table top with a curt _plop_. The boy’s father contrasts with the openness and brightness of the living room’s design, whatnot with his ash gray blazer, with the frown lines around his mouth, with the way his thick fingers fiddle about the bronze hinges of his briefcase. Mikoto busies herself behind the furnace, stirring the vegetables in the wok pan with long chopsticks and humming along to the smooth jazz cd she popped into the stereo when Fugaku came home with a gruff _tadaima._

“Where did you find him, Sasuke?” His father asks absentmindedly as he opens his briefcase, takes out his laptop and a few kraft paper folders and places them neatly in front of him.

Sasuke daintily puts his chin atop the crown of Itachi’s fuzzy head and answers with a hint of hope in his voice, “He was in our garden.”

“Is that so?” Fugaku says, as he opens one of the folders and skims through the documents inside with the pad of his thumb. His gaze flits from the papers to the furniture catalogue on the corner of the table to his son’s face. Itachi notices with sharp precision how the corners of the man’s mouth twitch upwards for less than a second, before all emotion drains away into stoicism.

So the boy’s father is a strict man, Itachi muses to himself and touches the outline of his muzzle with his tongue, waiting—waiting for Fugaku’s gaze to drop onto him too, as it inevitably will. His hands fall flatly onto the surface of the table as he turns his head to scrutinize the helpless creature in his son’s arms. Golden eyes become engulfed in the blackness of his pupils and soon the red creeps through, like blood through cracks. The furrows between his brows deepen as he struggles to comprehend what’s happening; a calming persuasive voice plants words like seedlings in the groves of his brain and he finds himself agreeing to those words.

“He stays outside during the day, but otherwise I don’t see the harm of it.” Fugaku finally says, tapping his thumb against the table a few times. “You will keep him in check of course, Sasuke.”

One chopstick clatters to the floor and Mikoto casts a disbelieving glance over her shoulder; her forehead gleams with sweat from the steam, her eyebrows raised high as two black-spun arches, but as soon as she sees how her son delicately puts the cat down on the floor and touches his father’s elbow in appreciation, she can’t resist smiling at them. From his vantage point, Itachi can see how the boy is somewhat anxious, unsure whether to hug his father or not. He thanks him formally, clasping his hands together in front of him and giving an inclination of the head; then, a touch of his fingers to his father’s elbow. Fugaku straightens his back and gives the barest of smiles.

A disciplined man, someone who carries the name Uchiha with _pride_ , Itachi doesn’t contemplate more upon the matter as he sits down and brings his paw to his muzzle, as if he would go about preening himself. The song changes to one he remembers hearing live in a dingy jazz club in the States a long time ago: Ella Fitzgerald, rusty saxophones, enveloped by the sound of laughter and a dozen twinkling lights. Fugaku looks up from his document and at him again, with a sense of wariness.

Itachi unsheathes his claws playfully as he licks at the fur in between the pink plush pads and closes his eyes in something akin to contentment.

Premium brand cat food in a plastic red bowl, a basket with a blue-white striped cushion, a scratching post in the living room, a squeaky Hello Kitty toy that easily gets discarded under the low coffee table in front of the sofa and even more gets bestowed upon him since his acceptance into the family. Despite Mikoto’s best attempts to keep him grounded to the house in the suburbs, he trails after Sasuke during the day, only to return after he’s made sure the boy was on the bus back home when cramming school was over. He takes on varying forms, sweeping low by the classroom window on the wings of a crow or standing guard as a stranger by the school gates, watching as Sasuke dutifully waits for his mother to pick him up. It’s difficult sometimes to balance between getting close—sleeping on the foot end of the boy’s bed, rubbing his wet nose against his fingertips—and getting closer still—following him on an errand in human form to make sure he gets to the convenience store safely but hesitating to _talk_ to him, his hands trembling as he stuffs them in his pants’ pockets and walks away again, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

Habits eventually get revealed to him in the unguarded moments he’s come to savor: the way Fugaku sets his jaw and narrows his eyes as he reads through various police reports with Dave Brubeck’s Take Five playing on the background, absentmindedly crossing his legs as he sinks deeper into the cushions of the sofa. Or how in winter, Mikoto greedily uses the cold weather outside as an excuse to eat _shabu-shabu_ and often feeds him a few strips of the premium beef when her husband isn’t watching. As the prefectural police chief, Fugaku is often required to meet dignitaries and it’s always a delight to watch Mikoto fuss over her son’s appearance while he begrudgingly allows her to haul a brush through his unruly mop of hair. When Sasuke’s pleading eyes turn onto him, that warmth he first felt upon seeing him swells up inside of his body. He thinks he will never tire of the boy’s light.

And Sasuke _grows_ ; from an energetic child who sneaks tomatoes from the fridge to a teenager who tries to hide the crack in his voice. His features sharpen, done away with baby fat, his shoulders broaden and he gains some muscle due to his father’s insistence to join the track and field team of his school.—“ _It’s only proper, your grandfather and I have both been members” And that certainly nipped any and all attempts at a discussion in the bud._ Itachi doesn’t know how to feel about the changes, being torn between watching early in the mornings how Sasuke changes into the school uniform and shying away from the sight altogether. _Oh_ , but he’s deadly attractive even from up close as he cradles him in his arms against his chest to talk about his day, even if the complaints are about giggling girls and the heat in their stares as they fall upon him walking by.

And yet… Itachi knows how deceptive the slow trickle of time seems to be and with this knowledge comes a bitterness—like listening to Gnossiene °1 after heartbreak or biting in raw chicory,—but also a gripping fear that tinges the tranquility of everyday life a stale blue.

Nothing really _lasts._

vii.

Fugaku has started to look paler over the course of summer, seemingly worn-down by the influx of work he has to process. His hands shake more and he’s developed a tendency to look over his shoulder at the oddest of times, as if he’s looking for things to be there that aren’t. More often than not, he wasn’t at home at all, opting to stay at the police department for work. One day, when Itachi was sneaking back inside underneath the hedge of the garden after a day of observing Sasuke at school, he found the man uncharacteristically smoking a cigarette on the porch. His gaze was far-away and his movements unfocused, automatic in how he brought the cigarette to his mouth, back down and exhaled unevenly.

“Itachi.” He begins when the cat jumped onto the wooden floor of the porch and crouched low by the man’s ankles. “It always seems like you’re always looking after Sasuke during the day.”

He looks up at the man’s face, but doesn’t make a sound to acknowledge his words. It’s exceptionally warm for the end of June; the sun’s reflection on the asphalt of the street almost seems like a strip of magnesium set on fire, the air conditioning systems of some of the stores are set so high that walking past the open doorway feels as a change of climate, and as always there’s the scent of sweat and deodorant pooling around the people he walks by. Fugaku has the sleeves of his button-up rolled up around his elbows, but is otherwise unaffected by the oppressive heat from his point of view.

His mind is scrambled when Fugaku pats him a few times on the head with the flat of his palm, as if it’s a gesture of gratitude instead of the customary gruff affection the man’s come to hold for him. It leaves Itachi uneasy and intuitively he _knows_ that something is not quite right. From inside comes the sound of a familiar voice and the harder-than-necessary slam of the door. Sasuke’s home. Fugaku opens the sliding door for him, still clutching the stub of his cigarette in his other hand. The smoke blends seamlessly in the smoldering air. It surprises him to see that the man’s white shirt is soaked through under the armpits.

Four months later he’s learned exactly how he should’ve interpreted the emotion in Fugaku’s eyes when he looked through the windows and into their living room; watching as Sasuke drops his book bag and pets him behind the ears, but at the moment itself he didn’t know how to describe it, because he’s never seen it before in the man’s eyes. It turned out to be that peculiar and precise _fear_ of losing something you love dearly.

It’s raining softly and his fur is glimmering in the soft whitish glow of the street lights; his nostrils are filled by the smell of homemade buckwheat noodles as he scrambles past the izakaya in the street to get home earlier than Sasuke, the undercover police car that’s been patrolling in the neighborhood for the past few weeks hasn’t arrived yet he notices when he arrives at the Uchiha house, but there’s a SUV he’s never seen before parked a bit farther away from the front door. Fugaku has been working at home more frequently since the start of October, filling the usually empty living room with his presence and taste of music. He creeps underneath the hedge and saunters to the porch over the wet grass, half-expecting Mikoto to stand there awaiting him already.

The lights in the living room are switched off, save for the electric blue of the stereo installation dash, a beacon of 0:32 going on 0:33 going on 0:34 as the saxophones of the Andrew Sisters’ song play on the backdrop. Itachi strains his ears to listen for a sound betraying Fugaku or Mikoto’s movements, but there’s nothing save for someone’s heavy breathing. His nose twitches at that familiar coppery smell and the image of a lowing cow sinking down flashes in front of his mind: blood sliding along a reddish brown neck into a puddle on the ground. Ever since he’s arrived at the Uchiha household, he’s refrained from using his powers, but all his instincts are pushing him to appear inside the living room as if there was no wall separating him. He appears an apparition, dark and poised and amber-hued eyes. His gaze searches through the shadows in the corners, but comes up short.

_Sasuke will be home soon.—_ He dares to set foot in the kitchen; the music continues playing uninterruptedly and it is otherwise so still inside the house he can hear with painstaking precision the creak of the first step of the staircase. The first thing he sees are the furniture catalogues Mikoto likes to browse through scattered across the floor, as if someone swept them off the table in a fury. It dawns on him how large the empty kitchen actually is from his point of view and with a sense of trepidation he jumps onto the counter separating the dinner table from the furnace, kitchen islands and the refrigerator.

His eyes narrow as he spots the blood splattered on the grocery list pinned to the door of the cooler and on the door itself. When he looks down, a gasp escapes him and his claws unsheathe reflexively, scratching onto the cool granite of the counter. Mikoto lies slumped against the bottom of the fridge with her long hair limp around her shoulders. His ears twitch when he hears heavy footfalls walking across the living area; with a turn of his head he sees through the open doorway a stranger pace up and down. There’s nothing outstanding about his appearance and he would be easily swallowed up in the anonymity of a crowd if it weren’t for the strange bundle in his arms.

“I’m home.” Comes Sasuke’s faraway voice, from the income hall. Itachi can feel his blood run cold and pounces onto the kitchen floor.

The stranger straightens his posture; his head turned to the far-end of the living area where the door of the income hall is. If Itachi strains his ears, he can hear the soft thuds of Sasuke’s shoes being dropped onto the floor followed by muffled footsteps.

“Mom? I’m home. Father?” He asks uncertainly, unaccustomed not to be greeted immediately since one of his parents is usually in the living area. Sasuke steps into the living room and seems to go completely still in shock when he spots something next to the coffee table. He croaks out, “Father?”

Itachi acts entirely on instinct when the stranger takes an obviously self-manufactured pistol from the bundle of cloth and aims for the teen at the other side of the room. Sasuke looks like he’s a deer caught in the headlights of a truck, wide-eyed and shocked. As that one time ages before, Itachi charges at him, half-changed back into the human form of his previous life, half-stuck in the shape of a two-tailed cat. His reddish eyes are split in half by pitch-black pupils as he shoves the man against the staircase; his two tails snap behind him half-swallowed by the hungry shadows in the unlit room, his fingers are tipped off by sharp pale nails digging into the stranger’s shoulders, and his teeth still contain the fangs of a cat. There’s a strangled cry, but he doesn’t know who it belongs to, and it contrasts shrilly with the music coming from the stereo installation.

There’s blood on his tongue _of course_ ; as he brackets the man’s jugular between sharp teeth and tears it out with one quick movement, Itachi feels him shuddering beneath him, shaking his head wildly in an attempt to deny him access. _It doesn’t work._ Chrysanthemum mingles with the smell of blood and cold sweat. Something effervescent like thick foam coats the inside of his mouth, dripping from the corners in a syrupy blue-white. He tilts his head back, feeling the blood and the ethereal remnants cool on his chin and gazes at Sasuke from his peripheral. The high crashes down around him as he notices that the teen’s crying silently.

He lowers the stranger against the side of the staircase and kicks the makeshift pistol to the bottom of the couch. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice sounds like his vocals had been set to a cheese grate, hoarse from disuse.

Sasuke swallows reflexively and furrows his eyebrows, staring at him with wet eyes. “Itachi? You’re Itachi?” His question comes out quietly, like he’s pattering a litany instead of asking something.

“Yes.” He answers carefully, walking on eggshells around the couch and closing in on him when he notices the way his breathing becomes faster, shallow. “You should sit down.” His advice is accompanied by the showing of his palms.

“You’re.. Did he hurt you too?” Sasuke asks in between gasps, places his hand on his abdomen and tries to stop himself from doubling over. His cheeks are flushed.

Itachi raises an eyebrow at the unexpected inquiry, but doesn’t respond, instead he guides the teen to sit down on the coffee table. In between the coffee table and the other sofa lies Fugaku on his stomach, the profile of his face exposed and blown apart at the temple; his dark hair is matted with blood and pieces of skull, his right arm stretched out in front of him, his mouth open and red. Itachi turns his gaze away, instead focusing on the trembling teen.

“Breathe.” He tells him softly, holding him by the shoulders to keep him steady. His hands have returned to their usual shape and the sullied sleeves of his white cloak fall down over his wrists and hang low on the coffee table. Itachi sinks down on one knee in front of him.

Sasuke’s having difficulties, panting hard as the tears roll down his face. His whole body is trembling violently.

“Breathe in.” Itachi murmurs and watches how the teen follows his command by inhaling deeply. His chest heaves and his mouth is open-wide. His nose is running, his bloodshot eyes screwed shut. “Breathe out.” Hot breath washes over his face, betraying their extreme close proximity. They repeat this for a few times.

They’re looking at each other again, prompting Itachi to let go of him.

“Did you kill him?” Sasuke’s voice is shaky, but he seems to have stopped hyperventilating.

He nods, thinking on how the stranger looks like someone took a butcher’s knife to his throat. In a reflex his tongue swipes a line along the seam of his lips. There’s only the taste of metal, done-away with the sweet stickiness of the man’s soul.

Sasuke stares at his lap for a moment, then he looks into Itachi’s eyes again and says determinedly, “Good.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Sasuke.” His apology is heartfelt but even to his own ears it sounds somewhat unnecessary, somewhat inappropriate.

In the background, the song seamlessly changes, going from jazzy saxophones to a gentle instrumental intro. Outside it starts to rain harder, it grows darker, it makes everything seem so much more desolate, especially the puddle of blood underneath Fugaku’s head. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“My mom too…” He croaks out, but stops and swallows back a sob. It still manages to come out half-strangled and his fingers twitch in his lap. “They’re both dead, aren’t they?”

“What am I going to do?” It’s a question directed to the both of them, to none of them, but he still desperately tries to find an answer on Itachi’s bloodied face. His nostrils flare as he takes another deep breath.

Itachi takes his right hand in both of his and says earnestly, lowly, “I will try to protect you as good as I can, Sasuke.”

He blinks slowly, then dares to glance at the soft hands holding his own. Experimentally he swipes the plush of his thumb over the side of Itachi’s warm hand. He doesn’t even grimace at the blood, but he does ask, “What are you even?”

“I’m not sure myself.” There’s no reason for him to lie, he’s investigated various sources all over the world to try and come up with an explanation for his powers. Itachi found some elements of folktale creatures to be quite fitting, but none could come to define him.

They lapse into a silence, but Sasuke doesn’t pull back his hand. He starts to cry again, but that too passes after a while. He eventually moves to stand up, unable to look at his father’s dead body and instead fixating his eyes on the flat-screen television screen positioned against the wall. He draws his cellphone from the pocket of his pants, but hesitates on how to proceed.

“Itachi..” Sasuke begins, watching how he turns on his knees and looks up at him, but not into his eyes. “I.. What’s your real name?”

He rises gracefully, looking every bit the courtier he once was even with the bloodied cloak and disheveled hair. It seems to take the teen by surprise how tall he actually is, but Itachi interprets his reaction as discomfort at his appearance. He changes into an outfit he’s once seen on display in one of the stores downtown. Sasuke gapes at him and takes a step backwards at the seemingly effortless transformation. Now in a white knitted sweater and a pair of black slacks, Itachi tilts his head to the right and offers a slight smile.

“I would be honored to continue wearing the name you bestowed upon me, Sasuke.” His response comes accompanied by an uncharacteristically shy wringing of the hands, as if he’s nervous for some reason.

Sasuke almost drops his cellphone but manages to catch himself just in time. “Alright, then. I can’t really imagine calling you something else, I guess.” His cheeks have become pale again, but his eyes betray that he’s been crying, and his voice does too.

“You should notify your father’s colleagues of what happened.” Itachi advices kindly as he walks back to the staircase.

He’s standing in front of the stranger’s corpse, then he sinks down and places a palm across the torn-open throat.

“What are you doing?” Sasuke asks, unable to see what’s going on. The screen of his cellphone lights up in the darkness. He tiptoes around the couch and looks on in utter confusion as the raw skin around the wound stitches itself back together.

Itachi presses his index finger into the man’s forehead, deeper until the skin there breaks and he can push through the skull into the sponginess of his brain. He throws a glance over his shoulder, first at the pistol he kicked away and then at Sasuke, before inquiring, “Can you hand me the gun, please?”

_“Right.”_

“So you managed to wrestle the gun away from him.” Detective Hatake Kakashi inquires while scribbling everything Sasuke says down on a notepad. His uniform is slightly wet from walking the short distance to the front door of the house. “And then you shot him when he lunged for you?” He looks up when he asks this, a wrinkle between his brows.

There’s a commotion in the house; a forensic team has been taking pictures, investigating the crime scene, bagging the pistol and the stranger’s wallet in plastic, and preparing the bodies for transport to the police’s morgue. One of the police officers had draped a blanket over Sasuke’s shoulders when he noticed that the teen was shaking.

Sasuke looks at him with dull eyes, nervously raking his hands over the curved spine of the cat in his lap. “Father taught me self-defense.” His voice cracks around the last word.

“So to summarize, you came home from _juku_ at six thirty and you saw Uchiha-san’s body next to the coffee table. You heard some stumbling upstairs, correct?” He says as he taps the end of his pen against his chin. There’s a glint in the detective’s eyes, a spark of doubt at Sasuke’s words and it doesn’t appeal to Itachi at all.

“Yes, that’s right..” He tries to steady Itachi in his lap, wrapping both of his arms around him and placing his chin atop the cat’s head. “Do we really need to go over this again? I told you before, that.. That _guy_ came down the stairs, we struggled, I knocked him against the staircase..”

“You knocked him against the staircase?” His head is tilted to the left as he pronounces the questioning particle _ka._ His brows are lightly raised as if this is a new bit of the story entirely.

Itachi doesn’t like how this man unsettles Sasuke so he tries to draw his attention to him by meowing petulantly. The noises he makes are extremely loud against the backdrop of the living area: the forensics team is finishing up and one officer had the decency to turn the sound of the stereo installation off with two dainty-gloved fingers. After a while the album got to the ending track and the blue display screen keeps blinking a: 1:24:36 over and over again. His tail curls against the boy’s jawline and Sasuke pulls back a bit, looking at the cat in confusion. Detective Hatake arches one eyebrow as he stares into Itachi’s golden eyes, then he frowns when the irises seem to be gobbled up by the blackness of the pupils. He almost drops his notepad in shock at the sudden redness.

Insinuations are whispered and _yet_ , not exactly whispered, more like directly and discretely placed inside his thought process. Kakashi found himself agreeing to the words, because _yes_ , they made perfect sense and why would he search for more behind the haphazard statements of the teen when he’d just gone through such a great shock? It felt as if there was someone machinating the wave of disdain he feels within himself at being so inconsiderate, but as he blinks slowly and the living room of the Uchiha family, the teen and his cat with big golden eyes dooms up again in front of his eyes like just a split-second before, he offers a small smile.

“That will be all.” Kakashi concludes, straightening his back and looking over Sasuke to his colleague Sarutobi Asuma, he’s the one holding the plastic bag with the makeshift pistol.

It doesn’t escape Itachi’s watchful gaze how their expressions grow solemn, wordlessly communicating that there is something more going on here. He presses his wet pinkish nose to the underside of Sasuke’s chin in quiet comfort. One hand comes to scratch him automatically behind the ears.

“They’re hiding something.” Sasuke murmurs disquietly, knees pressed against his chest as he sits against the headboard of his parents’ bed. While detective Hatake advised him to stay by one of his relatives or perhaps a friend for the next few nights, he’d been adamant on remaining here, at home. There’s nowhere else he wants to go.

The headlights of a car rounding the corner catch faintly in the windows; a shockwave of orange creeping over Sasuke’s cheeks, his white sleeping clothes, the light green sheets on the bed in a flash, then the darkness of night falls back into the room. Itachi leans against the wardrobe with his arms crossed over his chest. He isn’t all that surprised at how astute Sasuke is, but he doesn’t immediately comment either. His side-swept bangs slide over his face, but the rest of his long hair is held back in a loose ponytail.

“Do you think someone was behind this?” He wonders aloud, propping his chin atop his kneecaps and staring straight ahead at his reflection in the mirror-like surface of the wardrobe doors. His toes move underneath the sheets.

Itachi exhales through his nose and tilts his head back. He replies lowly, “Yes, some things do not add up.” He pauses, reflecting on Fugaku’s strange behavior the past few months and adds, “I think your father suspected something.”

“Will you help me?” Sasuke suddenly asks, his weighty gaze resting along the straight line of Itachi’s shoulders, going upwards to his face and eyes.

He smiles indulgently, pushes himself off the wardrobe and traverses the distance to the side of the bed, to the side where Mikoto used to sleep. The light of the night lamp, shaped as a silvery branch with a light bulb as blossom, forms a halo of artificial white. Itachi sinks down on one knee again and stares up at Sasuke with kind dark eyes, forgone of gold or crimson. He notices the faint blush on the teen’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t draw attention to it.

“Of course. I am entirely at your service, Sasuke.” It’s a vow and he wholly intends to keep it. His hands rest idly atop the sheets, next to the teen’s feet.

There’s a shallow nod in response and the tenseness in the boy’s posture seems to dissolve; his head dips forwards and the death grip around his calves loosens, the exhaustion sets in, starting by making it extremely difficult to keep his eyes open. Itachi rises to stand and prepares to take his leave. It would be best to let Sasuke have his rest, try to come to terms with all the things that have transpired today. He switches off the light, blacking out the pale wallpaper, the lightness of the oak wooden furniture in the room and the pretty-pink _sakura_ flowers in the dark painting hanging above the bed.

“If there’s someone behind this, I’m going to kill him.”

Itachi has his hand on the door handle, his fingers slip off the brass knob; he doesn’t turn to look back at the teen, but doesn’t make any more movements either. The conviction in Sasuke’s voice startled him into stillness for a moment, but he fixes his stance and takes a deep breath. He’s spent enough time aimlessly wandering this world, without purpose, without feeling the same wholesomeness he feels when he’s around Sasuke.

“You don’t have to sully your hands with murder.” His voice seems to him a ripple in the silence of the room, so he clears his throat and repeats himself. “You don’t have to, Sasuke, because I will gladly do that for you.”

Sasuke says silken-softly, but he says so in a tone that suggests gravel and wine, stewed sorrow, “You don’t have to leave, I mean, not if you don’t want to.”

His lips twitch up in a smirk and he turns to face the boy, enveloped in the darkness. “Do you want me to stay, Sasuke?”

There’s the shifting of sheets, an almost inaudible swallowing sound, the groping of fingers in the fabric of the pillow and finally the saving response, “Stay.”

“Of course, anything you want.”

Itachi slinks down to the ground and prepares to transform back into the body of a cat, but Sasuke stops him with a few words and the awkward scrape of his throat. He stubbornly looks at Itachi, even if his eyes are concealed in the darkness. It is only then that he realizes that the boy wants to be held, wants to be comforted and his breath gets stuck in his throat, but he relaxes soon enough, regaining composure.

_He meant it with every fiber in his being when he said: **anything** you want. _

_Tbc…_


End file.
